


A Moment of Trust

by claire99



Category: The Janet Watson Chronicles
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 10:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18618646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire99/pseuds/claire99
Summary: A terrible day at work for Janet leads to a moment of trust between her and the usually elusive Sara Holmes





	A Moment of Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [language_escapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/gifts).



> This scene would take place early in A Study in Honor, not long after Janet and Sara move into Apartment 2B together

I heard the apartment door open—softly, cautiously—then footsteps equally soft and cautious. That would be Sara, of course, who moved as gracefully as a cat, and like a cat, could be secretive or not, depending on her mood.

The door closed. The footsteps paused just inside the parlor.

And pause, and paused, and paused.

(Huh. There’s surely a bad pun here about cats and pauses, but that would require a happier mood.)

I tossed back the current shot of bourbon and refilled my glass. This would be…number three? Four? Let’s call it four. Hello, #4, good-bye #4. I poured another shot and tucked the bottle next to me. I’d reached the point where I no longer felt any sensation in my so-called ghost arm, once an arm of flesh and blood until the enemy sniper made that last, successful shot.

“Janet, my love. What are you doing?”

Sara’s voice was rough and low, with a hint of laughter. That day we’d met, she’d clearly found me amusing. Likely the true reason she wanted to share her apartment with me. It made more sense than any other explanation.

_At least I serve one good purpose in this world. Not like today…_

I lifted the glass to my lips. Stopped, suddenly queasy at the raw fumes.

Now Sara’s footsteps retreated toward the kitchen, where she opened one of the cabinets. Perhaps she would brew herself a pot of tea. Perhaps she would begin to prepare supper. Perhaps she would just leave me the fuck alone.

No such luck. Sara came prowling into our oh, so elegant parlor and joined me on our overstuffed couch, furnishings courtesy of Hudson Realty. She settled into the farther corner, cradling an empty glass in one hand as we both gazed out the enormous window looking south over DC. Twilight was just settling over the city. A ribbon of sunset on the horizon had begun to fade, and the monuments were bathed in soft white light. Beauty, one of my weaknesses. A thing to heal, when so much of the world was filled with ugliness.

Beauty wasn’t doing much for me today, unfortunately. Yet another topic for my therapist.

Sara held out her glass.

I growled, which only provoked a faint smile.

“Your mother surely taught you to share,” she said.

Reluctantly I poured her a double shot.

She sniffed the bourbon and blinked. “Ah, I see we’ve chosen to economize.”

With a howl, I threw my glass—hard—at the goddamned window. “We nothing, you goddamned fucking fancy rich girl. You, you—”

All the days’ events flooded my mind. With another howl, I grabbed the bottle to throw that as well.

Sara leaned over me and grabbed my wrist. For a moment, we stared at each other, our faces only inches apart. Her face was darker than a storm cloud, her eyes brighter than polished amber. I tilted my head up. What if…

She gently detached the bottle from my grip. Set that out of reach on the floor. Settled back into the corner. Somewhere in between, she’d deposited her glass out of sight.

“What happened today?”

I shook my head. Bad move, because my stomach lurched.

Sara regarded me with those same bright eyes, that same slight smile. “So. Let’s play a guessing game. When I guess correctly, you will simply nod. You, in return, will listen, you will breathe, you will…not launch anything else toward these very expensive windows, or our beloved Jenna Hudson might insist on a higher security deposit. Are you ready?”

I shrugged.

“Then, first guess. You lost a patient today.”

I was no longer a proper doctor, but the guess was close enough. I nodded.

“A veteran,” Sara said. “Someone who fell into black despair, much like yours.”

Oh, that cut far too close.

“You hacked the VA Medical system,” I muttered.

“No, I’ve hacked you, my love. Your eyes, rimmed with red like the sunset. Your mouth drawn into tight lines. Your breath, which you treat like a rare and valuable object, to be drawn and released only when absolutely necessary. The words you don’t speak, more than the ones you do.”

I shut my eyes, held myself absolutely still. She was right. I—we at the VA Medical Center—had lost one of ours. But oh, the truth of her words cut even deeper. Sara had any number of means to access data about me, about the VA, but her most dangerous and most accurate source was her own ability to make connections from this data point to that one.

“Am I right?” Sara asked softly.

I nodded.

She waited.

“PFC Abraham Harris,” I said at last. “Signed up two months after the war started. Served six years on the Tennessee border. An IED took both his legs while he and his squad were on patrol.”

Twenty-four years old. Enlisted after high school, because even with Alida Sanches as President, our country could not ensure education for all its citizens, nor proper rehabilitation for its soldiers. Addicted to painkillers and cheap booze. Harris had died early this morning, the victim of drugs and despair.

Sara touched my cheek with one hand. A feather-light touch. “Janet.”

“No! Goddammit, no. I am not your pet project—”

“No, you are not. But you are my friend—”

“Am I?” My voice scaled up and I twisted around to confront her. “You wanted a partner for this apartment. You wanted a toy you could play with. And maybe I let myself be that toy, because I could not bear that hostel another moment. But you are not my friend, and I cannot trust you.”

She went utterly still. I was afraid, but I kept my gaze fixed upon hers.

“Trust,” she said softly. “You want to trust me?”

I hesitated. “No. No, I want you to trust me.”

Sara seemed to understand. “And the rest shall follow. Very well, come to me, my love.”

She opened her arms. Still I held back.

“I am not your love,” I said.

“You are,” she said. “Not in the same way that you and your Angela loved each other. I don’t want to take you to bed. I have no passion for the flesh. I do, however, have those I love as sisters, as friends. Those I trust with my life and my heart. Those I trust.”

She held open her arms. Now I recognized the gesture for one of friendship. I settled into the crook of her arm, smelled the scent of rose perfume and the fainter scent of Sara Holmes herself. If I felt an attraction to this woman, I was also comfortable knowing that ours was a different kind of love.

Outside, twilight had changed to night and stars spangled the sky. The radiators ticked as the thermostat kicked into a higher gear. I would mourn for PFC Harris tomorrow. But I was a doctor and a surgeon, however much my career had been delayed. I knew that I couldn’t serve the dead. I had to serve the living.

“Come,” Sara said. “Let me tell you a story about Sara Holmes.”

“Will it be real?”

“It will be true.”

 


End file.
